Killing Time
by AKA DD
Summary: Preseries: Sam decided to go to Law School, and somehow Dean knew he had to learn to let his brother go. Dean's angst as he drove away from Sam at Stanford. Spoiler: PILOT episode


**Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine. I am neither making any earnings, nor am I affiliated in any way with Supernatural, its creators, producers and distributors. Just having fun here, folks.**

**A/N1: This story occurs in a sort of flashback-y motion as Dean is driving away after dropping Sam off for his Law School interview at the end of the Pilot Episode. Special THANK YOU to Ani-maniac494 for her betaing skills and patience.**

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**KILLING TIME**

_Sometimes I think of letting go and never looking back,_

_And never moving forward so there would never be a past…_

**-_Easier to Run_, Linkin Park-**

Dean pulled the Impala out of its parallel parking spot and started to drive away. The exhilaration of the hunt had long since left him. It had started to fade as soon as he had turned the Impala around to head straight back for Stanford.

He hated this part—the driving away part.

He resisted the urge to look in the rearview mirror knowing that Sam had already bounded up the steps and into his apartment, all too eager to leave him behind—all too eager to get back home. His new home.

That was what Dean had labeled Jess and the rest of Sam's new friends. Sam belonged with them now; they were his new home.

Not that Dean could blame him. Jessica Moore was a siren. If there was a girl who could hold a guy's attention for more than a night, it would be Jessica Moore. She was gorgeous, in that tall, I-wish-I-could-live-up-to-you type of way, intelligent, kind, generous, and nurturing—just what Sam had always needed but had never really found amongst the Winchesters.

Few people had ever understood what it was that Sam had needed all those years.

But Dean had. And it wasn't like he'd never tried to do anything about it, either.

He had tried so hard to be everything his little brother had ever needed. He had tried to be a good older brother. He had taught him how to climb trees, use the remote control, put cereal in a bowl without spilling half of it all over the kitchen, how to tie his shoe laces, and all those necessary things in life. Heck, he'd even helped Sam with his homework. He had spent countless hours at one kitchen table or another holding Sam's chubby hand while his brother held onto a pencil, teaching him how to write the alphabet. He had also spent hours pretending to understand half the gibberish little Sammy tried to read to him, struggling between his p's and q's.

They had some good days back then, like when Dad pulled Sam up into his lap and listened to him read _The Bad Hat_. Dean would sit on the arm of their father's chair and feel all proud and mighty that he had somehow helped Sam learn how to tell the difference between a 'b' and a 'd'.

But as they grew older, Sam had started needing a dad. The problem was, Dad had barely ever been around. So, Dean had tried to be the dad that was never there. When he'd been twelve, and Sammy seven, they had both watched as their father got into the Impala to drive away towards yet another hunt. Sam had been pretty torn up about it, and had rushed towards the driver's seat window and cried for their dad to stay. He had practiced so very hard to get his part as Abraham Lincoln in the school's President's Day play just perfect. But John wouldn't even be there to watch it. Sam had cried and begged for their dad to stay. He had only been in second grade; he hadn't understood why John disappeared for days at a time.

But Dean understood.

So, he had pried Sam's hands away from their dad's car, his hazel eyes meeting their father's dark ones. With a single nod of thanks, and a mumbled, "Take care of your brother," John Winchester had driven off. Sam had kicked and screamed up a storm, and Dean could only hold on to his brother until Sam had tired himself out. Then he had promised Sammy that he wouldn't miss the play for the world.

He'd sold his precious Lou Gehrig baseball card to get the fifteen bucks to pay for the ticket to watch the play. He'd sold the Cal Ripken card to buy the other ticket that was reserved for the 'mom'. He'd never wanted Sam to be the only one whose mom hadn't bought the ticket.

He knew how that felt: the questions, the wondering looks from the teachers, the pitying glances from his classmates. It was like not having a mom had made him into some kind of freak. He never wanted Sam to feel like that—they were freaks enough as it was.

So, he'd sat on the third row and watched Sammy stutter "Four score and…and…mumble years ago…"

He had sat through the boring performance like he was watching the '91 World Series. He had pretended that he'd enjoyed learning about all the presidents. It hadn't been all that bad, and Sam had squirmed every time Dean had crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at him. But the moment that he'd hated the most had come at the end.

Sam's teacher—Mrs.Raines, oh yeah, he still remembered her—had stood in front of the little stage and announced that none of the kids could've done all the work without the help of their parents. But, the thing was, Sam had done his work all by himself. He'd memorized and rehearsed all by himself.

Then Mrs. Raines said that they all oughta hug their parents and say thank you. 'Cept that Sammy didn't have his mom or dad to go up to and hug.

Dean had struggled for a moment, kinda embarrassed, but then he saw the way Sam had stood frozen on stage while everyone else had pushed past him and hugged parents. Sam had looked completely lost, kinda frightened, like a deer caught in headlights.

So Dean had climbed on-stage and given his kid brother an awkward half-hug. He'd even ruffled Sam's curly, uncombed hair for good measure. "You did good, Sammy," he had mumbled awkwardly.

Just as he'd been about to let go, he had felt his little brother's arms go around his waist and hug him back with all of his little seven-year-old might. "Thanks, Dean," he had mumbled against his jacket. "Thanks for coming."

"I said I would, didn't I?" he'd mumbled awkwardly. "I'll always come for you, Sammy."

Sam had just burrowed his head into Dean's jacket and nodded. His slightly chubby arms had tightened around him like he would never let go.

Dean would never tell Sam, but that was one of his favorite memories ever. It was right up there with the last Christmas they ever celebrated, just before Sam had been born—when they were still just a normal family. Dean had gotten a big, red fire truck that Christmas morning.

But Sammy hugging him that tight and trying so hard not to cry, that was worth all the fire trucks in the world.

Dean had tried to be a good brother, a substitute father, and he had tried real hard to be a good listener.

"Dean, you think there's ever gonna be anything more to our lives than this?" Sam used to ask him when they bunked down for the night. He'd been fourteen, Dean had almost been nineteen.

He had always been cautious in answering his brother. "Why you askin', Sammy?"

"It's _Sam_, Dean. I'm not that chubby, clumsy kid anymore," had always been the quick reply. By then, he had outgrown Dean by a good inch. Thought that gave him a right to not be Sammy anymore—not be the baby of the family anymore. "And, anyway, I just think that we can't keep doing this forever."

"What do you mean?"

"C'mon, Dean! I'm not a kid anymore. Just stop with the Socratic shit."

"We do what we gotta do because it's what we do, Sam," he had always given his brother the most roundabout answers he could come up with. Truth was, Dean had never questioned everything as much as Sam had in those days. He had never had the chance to question anything. Questions were for people who had time to ask them. Dean had always had his hands full keeping Sam safe and filling in the gaps of their broken family.

"That's a load of crock, and you know it."

"Well, what do you expect?" he'd sighed in exasperation.

"I keep getting this feeling that there's gotta be something bigger and greater for me out there, y'know?" Sam had only ever confided that in him once. In all their conversations about why they were Hunters, and why their lives were the way they were, Sam had only ever mentioned that once. "I keep feeling like there's something more expected from me."

"More? Don't you think what we do is a big deal? We save people, Sam."

Sam had buried his head in his hands and mumbled, "Yeah, but why can't we save ourselves?"

"C'mon, Sam! What the hell are you talking about now?" he had rounded on his younger brother with a scowl. He knew his expression had been angrier and more forbidding than what should have been expected.

"Forget it." Sam had always been smart. He had always known when to stop asking.

Dean had tried very hard to be a good listener. But there had just come a point when he just couldn't listen to Sam anymore, because Dean had, quite simply, run out of answers.

Finally, Sam had pulled him aside one day and demanded whether or not Dean would care if he just left.

That was when he'd realized how far apart they had drifted. Sam had been seventeen when he had asked that question, his wide brow indented with a deep frown.

"What are you talking about?" he had demanded his younger brother.

Sam, all of 6-foot-4 by then, had dropped onto the small twin bed in their apartment-of-the-month. "I got accepted to a bunch of colleges," he had admitted gravely. There had been no joy in his voice; he had only been stating a fact.

"I didn't even know you'd applied." Dean knew he had sounded like he was accusing his brother of something far worse than being accepted to college. But suddenly, at that moment, it had hit him how much of Sam he no longer knew. He used to know everything about his kid brother.

For a moment, he'd felt like he had somehow failed Sam.

"I would've told you, but you wouldn't have listened."

Dean had looked away, because Sam had been right. He would have just nodded, then switched the subject onto the _Chupacabra_ or whatever it was they were hunting at the moment. "So? What're you gonna do now?"

"Do you really even care?" Sam had countered.

"That's a stupid question, Sammy"

Sam had scoffed. "You say that about everything I ask you."

"That's cuz you ask questions with obvious answers."

Sam had stood up suddenly, and scowled deeply at him. His voice had been carefully even and controlled, but Dean had heard the hurt and disappointment in his brother's voice.

"Dean, _I don't know_ what the obvious answers are! I don't know what the right answers are in this family. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, or what I'm supposed to say, or what I can ask you or Dad! _I don't know_ if I'll ever learn to be a part of this family, Dean. I really don't know."

"So, you're leaving. Just like that."

Sam had shrugged his massive shoulders. Despite his size, Sam had still looked incredibly young and at that moment, he'd also looked very lost.

"Where?"

"Got into a couple of decent schools. Vanderbilt in Tennessee, UT Dallas, Notre Dame, U Penn, Columbia, Loyola in Chicago, Georgetown…even…even Stanford." For some reason, Sam had sounded more and more dejected as he'd ticked off school after school. Dean had wished he'd still known how to make his brother feel better. But not anymore. So, he'd just listened, like he used to, even if he'd been a bit rusty from being out of practice for so long.

"So, where're ya going?" He had tried his hardest to sound like he couldn't care less that Sam was leaving. Truth was, it had hurt more than anything had ever hurt him at that point. And boy, that was a whole lot of hurt to pick from. It'd hurt because he should have known. He should have realized that Sam had wanted—needed—more than having his dad and brother brush him off all the time.

Sam had shrugged gigantically, sighed heavily and had thrown himself onto the bed again. The bed had looked even tinier with his brother's long and lanky form sprawled over it. "I dunno. Maybe I won't. I was…well, I was just…I just wanted to know."

Dean had never asked what he'd meant by that. Whether Sam had wanted to know if he could get into Stanford or any of the other schools, or if Dean would care if he left, or if their Dad would be proud that he had gotten into Stanford. There'd never been time to consider it.

Becauseas things had turned out, the fight between Sammy and their Dad later that night had sealed the deal. Sam had shouted that he was going and that John couldn't stop him. John had ordered his youngest son never to come back. And in a split-second decision, Sam had chosen to go to the farthest school: Stanford, all the way in sunny Palo Alto, California.

Dean hadn't said a word to make his dad listen. He hadn't said a word to make Sam stay. For once, he had understood what Sam was talking about: he just hadn't known what the right answer was at that moment.

He had been twenty-two, an age when he should have been finishing up in college, too. An age when he should have been off doing his own thing. Instead, he had sat in the Impala, music blaring loudly, trying to drown out his family's shouting and banging.

He had watched Sam leave. He had offered to take his brother to the closest Greyhound station. Both John and Sam had said, "No." Their voices had been cold and distant.

And since that day, Dean had watched over Sam.

The first time he'd gone to California to see Sam was in the third quarter of his Freshman Year. It'd been spring, and he'd be damned if the campus hadn't been as gorgeous as the pictures he had seen. Everything had been sunshine-y, blue and red, and _green_. The sky had been so brilliant it had actually hurt his eyes to look up at it. The day had been warm, too, with just a cool enough breeze to stop him from sweating it out.

In fact, he'd felt a little overdressed in his layers of shirts, leather jacket, and worker boots. Everyone that walked past him had been in a shirt, jeans and those flip-flop things he would never be caught dead in.

That was when he caught sight of his brother across the quad, in front of Memorial Church. Sam had looked like he really belonged: long-sleeved white shirt, light jeans, _flip_-_flops_, and a backpack slung over his shoulder. But the best part had been the look on Sam's face. He'd been smiling like he was made of sunshine. Dean had never seen Sam smile that easily before. He couldn't help but quirk his lips, too, as he watched his brother lope across the tiled quad with long-legged strides.

He had flipped his phone open and speed dialed his brother. Expectedly, he had seen Sam pause and search his jeans for his phone.

He had glanced down at the screen with Dean's name on it.

And just like that, he had stopped smiling.

Dean's breath had hitched painfully at the sight. Sam had suddenly looked caged and unhappy in that moment; all because of a single phone call from him. Needless to say, he had hung up before his brother could agonize about whether to answer it or not.

He also hadn't wanted to know what Sammy would have decided. He didn't want to know if Sam would have answered his phone or not. He didn't think he'd have stood it if Sam had shoved his phone back in his pocket and pretended like Dean had never called.

He had stood frozen next to one of the bronze statues by some dude named Auguste Rodin. The six bronze sculptures were of men in various states of distress. Their faces held so much pain, sorrow and anguish, that Dean had actually stood and stared at them, transfixed. He had understood them.

_The Burghers of Calais_, as the sculptures were called, were six citizens from Calais who had chosen to sacrifice themselves to save their village.

While bronze sculptures and the history of _The Hundred Years War_ were slightly over his head, sacrifice was something Dean knew and understood intimately. He had hidden behind one of those anguished statues as Sam had walked right past him.

Over the next four years, Dean had visited Sam twelve times. Once in every quarter of the school year. He had tried to see his brother during summers, but Sam had built a life of his own. He had gone on vacations with his rich friends. In those summers, Dean remembered feeling the most alone.

At least during the school year, he still saw that he had a brother.

In the summers, Sam was just gone.

But in each of those twelve times Dean had gone to Stanford, he'd never told Sam he was there. He'd been afraid he would make his brother stop smiling again.

Then, one day, Dad hadn't come home. Dean knew that Sam would have graduated by then. So, he had gone to Stanford for the thirteenth time, broken into Sam's apartment easily—because he had always known where to find his brother—and asked Sam to come with him again.

He had almost asked Sam to come home. Except that, Dean knew they had never really had a home. It would have sounded stupid, and lame, and just damned sorry. But the truth was, home was Sammy and Dad. Wherever they were, that was home. He didn't think his dad or his brother would ever understand.

"I can't do this alone."

"Yes, you _can_."

Dean had looked his brother in the eye and given him the truth: "Well, I don't want to."

Sam had hesitated for a long while, and it had hurt that Dean had to _convince_ him to come.

"All right, I'll go." But he had a stipulation. He had to be back in time for an interview for Law School.

Dean didn't know what he'd been expecting. Maybe that he and his brother could just pick up where they'd left off all those years ago. In the four years Sam had been gone, Dean had just been killing time. Waiting around for Sammy to finish school so they could…they could be brothers again.

But hearing his brother make _separate_ plans for _his_ future…it had hurt more than the first time he'd left.

So he had smiled and nodded when Sam told him about law school, but inside he felt like he'd been hit by an eighteen-wheeler.

Sam had asked him once, if he would care if he left. The obvious answer had been yes. And back then, Dean had seen how much Sammy had needed him to say **"yes".** He just hadn't been able to say the word out loud.

This time around, Sam hadn't even asked. It was as if Sam no longer needed him to care. But the sad part was, Dean still cared.

Now, he realized that Sam was never going back home. He was never coming back to stay with him. He was moving forward with barely a backwards glance on to bigger and greater things, just like he had said.

Dean knew that he had to somehow learn to let go of the kid that used to be his brother.

So, now, he was driving away, maybe for the last time ever. Sam had an interview tomorrow morning for Law School. Sam had the rest of his life to look forward to. In a way, Dean—older brother, surrogate father—was proud of the way Sammy had turned out. He just wished there was a little bit of room for him in Sam's new life.

Few people understood that John, Dean, and Sam Winchester, whether they were a family, or three separate people, all had a home in each other. Maybe John and Sam didn't get it; few people understood it.

But Dean did.

Dean bit the insides of his cheeks angrily. He hated this, the driving-away-from-Sam part. But it was something he did, because he knew it was the best he could do for his brother. And all his life, he had done the best he could do for Sam.

He glanced at his watch and frowned. It had stopped, the hands frozen in place. He shook his wrist a couple of times just to be sure. His eyes narrowed on the radio, and he flipped it onto an FM station. Static.

He must be within the radius of a low-frequency EM field. His lips narrowed into a thin line at the thought. His foot eased off the gas pedal, and his eyes slid towards the rearview mirror again. Only a handful of things in this world could release that kind of energy without being easily detected. He knew exactly what it meant, but that wasn't why he was hesitating.

He gritted his teeth to fight the impulse to turn around and tell Sam. He tried to ignore the need to drag Sam along with him for one more adventure—for old time's sake. But he told himself that he couldn't exactly just leave without at least warning his brother.

"What the hell," he muttered before hitting the breaks and going in reverse down Sam's street. Even if Sam wasn't in the business anymore, didn't mean that evil stopped hanging around. It couldn't hurt to make sure Sam was safe. Besides, he had promised his brother that he would always come for him.

He was parked and stepping out of the car when his brother's place suddenly went up in flames.

"_SAM!"_

**AND SO THE STORY BEGINS…**

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**A/N2: Y'all know what happened afterwards…**

**Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!**


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